Woke up with Ray LaMontagne’s voice in my head. I miss my husband and son, Theo, who are somewhere between Cheyenne and Denver now, roadtripping their way to Austin, Texas our new hometown. And in three more days, I will coming home to you darlings. Lucas and I, the two cats, a giant suitcase and a backpack filled with every confidential document, piece of jewelry, and piggy bank item will board a plane Austin-bound. With a one-way ticket. The last time I bought a one-way ticket was in 1991 when I moved to Seattle, where I have made my home for over two decades.

The move was initially prompted by a search for a warmer climate. My health issues have become so overwhelming that I cannot live comfortably in Seattle. The cold, damp weather simply crushes me. Once Tim and I got on the same page–fodder for another blog post–we realized that our lust for travel and adventure could be combined with this move; he was also about to start a massive job hunt, and our older son would soon be ready for middle school. (Seattle schools are iffy at best right now, unfortunately for all of my dear friends with children enrolled in them.) The timing was perfect.

These last few weeks have been a surreal whirlwind of anxiety, exhaustion, excitement, panic, joy, sadness and amazement. Tim and I put our minds to moving the family to Austin in May of this year. And we made it so. I remember distinctly the moment, even though we hadn’t yet verbalized it. We were in an awful W Hotel in San Diego doing recon. Down to two cities of choice, we went to San Diego first. If you believe in signs, and I do, the first was that the day before we left, I got the flu. And I’m talking the knock-down drag-out flu. My older son had had it two weeks earlier and I was so proud of myself for having Purelled my way through his illness. Hah! I slept on the plane and shivered my way through our first night in the hotel in a Nyquil haze.

We spent our first day in San Diego doing our due diligence but, needless to say, my heart wasn’t in it. I could barely speak and my only sustenance was a Wendy’s Frosty (which by the way, was my first ever and kicks ass if you have a sore throat). The expense of living there, the feel of the place, the limited job opportunities, there were many factors–it just didn’t feel right. And the signs, oh the signs. We were parked next to the hotel room of a group of bachelor partiers. At 3 a.m. they decided it was Black Sabbath time. I could go on and on. Signs were everywhere.

But, back to “the moment.” It was after thirteen hours of drug and flu-induced sleep, waking up on Mother’s Day in the don’t-ever-stay-there-W-Hotel in San Diego as I heard my husband madly tap, tap tapping on his laptop. He was signing up for LinkedIn message boards and technology groups and reaching out to folks all in the name of Austin, Texas. Ya’ll.

One month later, coincidentally but fittingly, on Father’s Day weekend, we were in Austin. It was the beginning of the summer heat wave. It was hot. I’m not gonna lie. But, it also wasn’t so bad. Not humid. Light clothing. Take a good deep breath of A/C before exiting the hotel. By the end of the weekend, we were getting used to it. The feel of the city enveloped us like a blanket (a warm-ass blanket, but a blanket nonetheless). We felt like we were on a first date, “I could live here, what about you?” “I could live here.” And finally, we looked at each other, toasting with a Shiner and a margarita: “Here’s to our new hometown.” Friendly, manageable traffiic, great job opportunities, a fantastic school district within the city limits and affordable housing–we’re getting a pool dammit–awesome food, music to shake your moneymaker to, awesome food (did I mention), Amy’s ice cream, water everywhere–lakes and people out running, walking, playing with dogs, kayaking–like Seattle but with sun and warm weather. And bats, the largest colony of bats in a city, oh, just Google it. It’s amazing.

So, here I sit, in an Alki townhouse, with my sweet six year old asleep downstairs as we live out our last three days in Seattle. My hometown of over 20 years. I love you Seattle. Thank you friends, family, community, mountains, beach . . . I will miss you all.

Gonna bring it on home to you
Home to you home to you.

With two cats in the yard,

Life used to be so hard,

Now everything is easy ‘cause of you.

Come to me now, and rest your head for just five minutes

Everything is done.

My oldest son is nine. Tall like a stalk of bamboo, smile as broad as can be. Bright, curious, sensitive, amazing, resilient, creative, intense—he amazes me. He wants to be a scientist, aide to the President, discover a new dinosaur. My younger son will be six in a few weeks. He’s a sweetheart; kind, gentle, incredibly aware for his age and hilarious. He wants to be a rock star, professional baseball player, fireman.  He made our little family complete. And when I look at them, I realize that they already have more security, strength, rock-solid parenting, nurturing, laughter, than my sister and I at their ages. They have lived in the same home, had the same room, the same parents, together. We are a team, solid, loving—they have a world to discover and a safe place to come home.

The other night I went in to cuddle with my younger son. My husband had been on story duty. I opened his door to a darkened room and he looked up at me from his loft bed. I was smiling. He said “Hi Mom. I love it when you smile like that.” My eyes brimmed. “Why’s that sweetie?” “Because it means you’re happy and I love it when you’re happy. I love you so much.” I climbed up onto his loft bed and held my little boy and took in his special smell and the curve of his body against mine and marveled at the fortune of my life.

My husband and I work at it. And it hasn’t always been easy. We’ve had our rough months, a rough year here and there. But, we’re so strong now it feels like we’re soaring. I’m aware that there are hills and valleys in life, but watching my children grow in to who they are—not who I think they should be—is more joyous than I’d ever imagined. Feeling the bond grow and strengthen and change between me and my husband, and then our family bond as an extension, is a happiness I’ve never before felt. I missed that growing up. But in our house, we’re giving that to our children, and they’re giving it to us. It’s a very very very fine house.

What I am trying to wrap my head around is a “new normal.” My 2010 was full of health challenges, so much so that I’ve lost my exercise routine (a huge key to my sanity). I feel lost in other ways too. What’s next for me creatively? What are my priorities? Besides my family, kids, husband, I committed today to myself as my priority. My “new normal” is, thanks to the go-ahead of my knee surgeon; the strategic placement of some very strong steroids in my spine; recovery from the flu, a cold and a lot of anticipatory patience on my part, the taking back of my physical health and therefore getting my balance back. I don’t know what it will look like. I can’t predict life. I will have more flare-ups. As a good friend said to me “It’s nothing personal. Life just happens, you have been hit with one thing after another. Your knee, your back, the stomach flu, a miserable cold, but it’s not personal; it’s life.”

My new normal is just going to be my normal, I guess. No resolution can predict or dictate how it will be, what will cross my path. I just have to roll with it.

My husband saw this news before I did and he called me. I was glad he did. I had a chance to begin to process it before my kids got home from school, to call a friend and cry, to reach out in my way. We decided to wait and let our older son hear it at school, with his peers. The news is only relevant to him and not his younger brother. Also, my mother and her husband arrived last night; the children were counting down the arrival with the oven timer, standing watch at the window. It was a joyous occasion in our home, hectic, exciting, not the time to raise the issue. I held it, thought about it, talked with my husband, felt it. And, I felt sad for the family, grateful for what I have, guilty for the relief, and many other things.  I still do, I still will. As it is with tragedy comes introspection, and often gratitude, appreciation, perspective.

“Don’t it always seem to go,

That you don’t know what you’ve got

Till it’s gone.”

It’s not just a song about parking lots.

Last night, after the grandparent activity, new microscopes with which to look at orange peels and pennies, new books to read, baths to be taken, I was fortunate enough to be chosen as story-reader by my youngest son. I had expected it to be Grandma, as did she and she was disappointed, but my kids know what they need. I read him stories, had special time with him, and found that he had a motive for choosing me. He’d had a bad dream the night before and needed to talk about it, needed reassurance. We boiled it down to the fact that there were no robbers in our house, the doors were locked, we were safe and he didn’t have to fear getting up for a drink of water. He dreamed he had done so and a robber intercepted him. He’d been scared but Daddy punched the robber in the nose, so that was good. Still, he had some lingering feelings.

At 3 a.m. last night, I awoke to hear very soft sobbing. It was my little one, my five year old. He wasn’t hysterical, just gently crying. I went in and asked what was wrong. “I just want a drink of water Momma and I can’t get up to get one.” He was still afraid. Of course, I got him some water and we talked about how he was safe in his own home. As I lay there with him, knowing I could go back to my own bed, not wanting the moments of comfort, for him — and as it turns out for me as well— to end, I realized how he completed our family in such a perfect way.

Something he said, something about the way he reached his little arm over me and looked in to my eyes just clicked for me. I’ve thought it before, I’ve felt it before, but last night was stronger, different. Of course, in part, I was raw from the news of earlier. And, as he grows in to himself, his personality, I continue to marvel at who he is. I love him so deeply, as I love my other son, but of course not the same because they are not the same. And I said to Lucas, “You know, before we had you, when Theo was a baby and it was just him and me and Daddy, we were like a puzzle with a missing piece. And then we had you and our puzzle was complete.” He smiled and kissed me. “I love you Momma.” And I just felt it, stronger than I’ve felt anything in a long time. This puzzle I have been trying to solve, these pieces I have been desperate to fit together. They are now one.

I don’t need to remind you that it is 2010. And still, we haven’t learned. Acceptance is fleeting, intolerance seeps through the pores of too many to counter those who give a damn. And giving a damn is not enough. We need to really fucking give a damn. We need to model acceptance and compassion and refuse to accept less. When someone makes a “cheap Jew” joke, I call bullshit. I don’t care if it makes them uncomfortable. It should. It is not OK and I won’t stand for it.

While this topic is particularly inflammatory with respect to gay, lesbian, bisexual or transgender equality, it doesn’t stop there. Teenagers especially are at risk, but I see it already in my elementary school age children. Bullying comes in the form of what some erroneously term “harmless teasing” about athletic ability (lack thereof), academic achievement (since when is kicking ass at math and loving to read “bad?”), even glasses wearing. Really? A kid needs glasses and that merits ganging up on him and making him cry. Where the fuck are these kids learning that such behavior is OK?

I rarely pepper my posts with the f-bomb but frankly I am so angry that I cannot see straight. I wish I could find a more potent word to express how angry I am. I want to drop the f-atom bomb. I want an f-mushroom cloud to descend upon those who will not recognize that enough is fucking enough.

I am horrified when I hear about bullying of any kind. What is wrong with our nation, our communities when we cannot bear the thought of accepting people for who they are? Thin, not thin, white, black, rich, poor, athletic, academic, both. I was mercilessly teased in elementary school for being chubby. “Blubber” was the term of choice and I simply took it. Ashamed beyond belief, at a loss as to how to respond, I simply took it. A teacher finally stepped in and I remember her asking my teaser “How do you think it makes Jenny feel when you call her that?” It ended then, but the word echoed in my mind for years after and left a scar I still carry.

I was also teased for being white. I know, poor little white girl, not such a sob story, but it’s true. I was the only white girl in my homeroom and was called “honky” every day throughout junior high. Finally, the matriarch of our class, Adrienne, took the offender aside and said “Yo, Kevin, you leave Jenny alone, she white but she’s cooler than all of ya’ll.” I felt the farthest thing from cool in my OshKosh overalls, chubbiness, good grades and hippie hair, but Adrienne vouched for me, and to her credit, she saw past my exterior to who I was. I still got called “honky” but it didn’t hurt quite as much.  

I know we all have our stories. Rare is the person who did not feel awkward at some point growing up, especially in junior high school. My way around it was to be stoned most of the time, not a strategy I’d recommend. I wish I had been able to talk to my parents, to be honest with my friends about who I was and how I felt. And to celebrate my incredible strengths. Finally, I did. And I believe we must pave the way for all children to do the same: To celebrate their strengths.

My mother, for all of her faults, is an amazing educator and gets how different kids best learn. I eventually transferred to a private school made up of brilliant, creative, academically excellent teachers and students who were all, in many ways, alternative. We were celebrated and appreciated for our special gifts while still learning our ABCs and 123s, paving the way to whatever future we wanted whether it was college, grad school, music, filmmaking, writing, sales, IT, marketing, you name it. What we learned was that we were valued for who we were, no matter what. And that is what we need to teach and preach and practice.

None of what happened to me compares to the persecution of these young people in recent news. We must all start treating each other with respect and compassion. All the time. We must teach this to our children. Now. Treat people the way you want to be treated. Smile at the guy slicing your deli meat. Treat him with respect. Do you like getting flipped off and yelled at in traffic? No? Then don’t do it to me. Do you like being cut in front of in line? Then pay attention to those around you and respect the process. Don’t sneer at your partner. Smile. Give a kiss, a hug. Love your children. Put your money where your vote is. Act up. Vote for equal rights. Be pissed off when they’re not granted. Get angry. Start giving a damn and acting like it. Stop assuming someone else will do it for you. And open your heart to those who might need an ear. Not one more Matthew Shepard or Tyler Clementi. Not one more.

This is his second Scotland trip. The first was three years ago at the same time of year. This year, our youngest started kindergarten. Three years ago, our oldest did. At the time, I cried almost every day for weeks. That transition was painful and frightening for me. My health was precarious then. My drive to write felt flimsy, unfocused. I felt lost and judged myself as a result. His leaving added to that pain. When he left, we were fighting, distant. When he returned, we picked up where we left off. Our marriage felt fragile like thin sheets of ice shifting on a spring pond. But we found our way back to each other and we’re better now, both together and apart. 

We, like all couples, face challenges. Sometimes we meet them well, other times we falter. This challenge was an opportunity. A chance for us to work as a team and to be strong. This time when he left, I sent him off with tears, yes, but love, bittersweet love. And no anger. I watched him get swallowed up into the airport with joy in my heart because I knew he was going to feed his soul, and I was able to give that to him.

Friends tease me with “When is your two week getaway?” And I will have my turn. I know I will. There is time and space for me to feed my soul, however I need to do so. I don’t want a two week golf trip in Scotland. But what I want can be had. I simply need to ask. I don’t need to fear that I will be cheated. Someone who loves me as he does would never cheat me. He sees my soul, as I do his and I know how precious that is. And I am grateful.

I am grateful for so much in my life. My family, my friends, the community in which I live and feel supported and safe. I know, tonight more than ever as I sit in my dark bedroom, two warm cats waiting for me on my bed, two happy, sleeping children in their rooms below, that I am the luckiest girl I know.

A week before we were to leave for a twelve day East Coast whirlwind trip, my younger son got sick. Not scary hospital sick, but he spiked a fever and for six days that damn fever hung on. His doctor wasn’t concerned, it was a virus. Eventually I had them do X-Rays and bloodwork since he had been hospitalized with barely detectable pneumonia just a few months back. I was worried. This fever just wouldn’t quit. And, I didn’t want to end up in an ER on our trip (or anywhere for that matter).  Normally, he goes to an amazing year-round preschool that is part preschool part daycare part summer camp.  Since he’s only just turned five, having him home means I’m on 100% of the time. When he’s sick, it’s 150%. Any mother will tell you.

My older son is eight and self-sufficient. Together, my boys act like brothers. Sometimes they ignore each other and do their own thing, sometimes they play and giggle and have a blast and sometimes they fight. And that’s just a giant pain-in-the-ass despite being normal. When one is sick, it’s worse. One wants to rest and have mom all to himself; the other is jealous but also bored. One wants popsicles and TV, the other wants to go out and play and have popsicles and TV. There’s conflict, tears, fatigue. It’s a regular laugh riot.

I had planned to use that week to get ready, doing a myriad of things ranging from trips to Costco, to writing, to meeting with my editor, to laundry, to spending some much needed one-on-one time with my older son, to even spending a moment or two alone. To top it off, three days in, I caught the mystery virus. I pretty much catch everything; I have a weakened immune system due to a chronic illness. That is just my reality. But, I cannot bring myself to stay out of my son’s bed when he’s sick with fever or needs cuddling. I’m his mom. That’s also my reality.

I was feeling so lousy one afternoon, exhausted, sick, needing comfort but encouraged that my son seemed to be on the mend (only to have his fever spike again that evening). Wanting to capitalize on his energy, I had him sitting at the table, coloring, trying to get some actual food in him, take a break from the television. My older boy was doing well too; he was in his room Star Wars Legoing and having a great time. But, I was not faring so well. I felt like crap. I kept trying to reach my husband. He was going out that night to a concert. I wasn’t going to ask him to cancel. Had it just been beers with a friend, I might have, but this was a special event for him. But, I needed to just whine a little, talk for a few minutes. I needed to hear him say “I’m sorry sweetie.” And I figured I’d cry a little, let it out, and then get through the rest of my day.

When I got him on the line, finally, I burst into tears. I was so tired, feeling awful.  And, I was really crying. It just all hit me. My kids have seen me cry before and react with concern and compassion but what happened next was astounding and heartwarming and amazing. My five year old, Lucas, was sitting at the table. He jumped up from his coloring. “Theo, Theo, come quick! We have to cheer up Mom!” “Here I come Lucas! What’s going on? Mom, Mom, sit down. C’mere, it’s OK.” Meanwhile, I’m on the phone with my husband but am so overwhelmed by this I’m crying even harder. I can’t speak. They race to their rooms. One comes back with his blankie; the other a pillow. “Here Mom, it’s OK.” Hugs all around, kisses, murmurs of support. “It’s OK Mom, you’ll feel better soon.” “I know, Mom, it’s hard to be sick.”

My husband tells me he loves me. “Sounds like you’re in good hands dear,” he says. “Feel better.” We ring off and Theo guides me into his room.  “Mom,” my wise eight year old says, “I’m going to play ‘It’s All Right To Cry’ for you and let’s just sit on my bed and listen to it. It will help Mom.” And he puts in the CD of “Free To Be You And Me,” music I listened to at his age, on LP, of course.

And I sit with him on his little twin bed, crying as he holds me.  

Rosey Grier sings:

It’s alright to cry

Crying gets the sad out of you

It’s alright to cry

It might make you feel better.

And I do. And I feel blessed and loved and, yes I do feel  better.

We are who we are because of what we do, how we love; our essence. It’s easy to forget that, at least it has been for me. But that’s becoming my past. Things are shifting for me. That voice is quieting down. I have perspective and, dare I say, maturity. I know I don’t need others to tell me I’m enough, but sometimes it takes an outside event, an external force to remind me. It’s the spiritual equivalent of a bitch slap. It’s a big ol’ “Hello?! Anybody home?”

This weekend as I got my older son ready for camp, I made yet another phone call to the camp director. He had promised me an email with confirmations, invoices and other official things. We were signed up and on the list, so I assumed all was well, but these documents had been promised since May. I was a little discomfited by this. After the first few phone calls, he finally admitted that he’d spent some time at the hospital with a family member and was behind. OK, I thought, that’s a good excuse. They’re family run, as long as we’re in.

I called last week. “Just want to make sure that when we show up at the bus, you guys will be there.” “Yes.” And he apologized again and promised to send something over the weekend. The weekend came and went. No email. Late last night I got a phone call from him. Sheepish. He seemed awkward. He didn’t even have a record of our information or payment. “I know I sent you a lot of forms,” I finally said after he was able to admit to not having it.  And then, he found it. I pictured him, utterly embarrassed after finding it beneath a pile of paperwork. “You must be the most forgiving person in the world,” he said. “Somehow I have botched this from the beginning, once I think I even referred to the wrong camp in an email.” “I have to admit, I was a little put off,” I said, “but you mentioned someone had been in the hospital and I know you’re a small business and life happens. It’s OK.” “Well,” he said, “I’m sorry I thought you hadn’t even paid, I have your cancelled check. Let’s take $25 off the remainder since you’ve been so nice.” “Thanks,” I said.

This morning when I dropped my son off, I met his wife, gave her the check and explained her husband and I had had some back-and-forth on administrative issues. “He mentioned something about the hospital so it took awhile to get it figured out.” “It was me,” she said. “I was in the hospital for several weeks. I was really sick.” I was confused since she looked like she’d stepped out of an REI catalog. Fit, healthy, alive. “Oh my gosh, well no wonder!” I said. “He didn’t mention it was his wife. Of course things got crazy.” “Yes. I’m fine now, but I was really sick.” “I’m so sorry, but I’m glad you’re OK.”

We all stood and talked for awhile with the kids, other parents and then her husband showed up. We introduced ourselves and joked about the confusion. All was well. At the last minute, kids buckled in to the camp van, everyone else off to the next thing, his wife came over to me “I was pregnant and had a miscarriage,” she whispered. My eyes filled with tears. “That’s why he’s been so distracted.” We hugged and talked about it. “I’m 38,” she said. “We’re so worried.” “I’m 45,” I said. “I had my first child at 37 and my second at 40. I also had a miscarriage,” I said. “Oh, thank you so much for saying that,” she said. I realized how honored I was that she’d trusted me, five minutes after meeting me, to share something so personal. “Thank you for sharing that with me,” I said “I’m so sorry for your loss.” “Well,” she said, “you seem like someone who would understand.” And I felt connected to her, the world, the goodness in me and others. By sharing myself, by being patient and generous and understanding instead of assuming the worst, I was able to make a deeper connection with someone, with my world. This is my essence. Not the size of my ass. Consider me spiritually bitch-slapped.

Five years ago today, July 2, 2005 at precisely this time—11 a.m.—my husband and I were headed to the hospital hoping to get a bed so I could give birth to Lucas. He’d been true to his nature in pregnancy and for weeks prior to his due date threatening to join us only to sit and wait, all sharp elbows and knees, just to show his strong will. Finally, I was scheduled for induction at thirty-nine weeks. July 1^st. I love to plan, to know what’s coming so this was perfect. Theo was scheduled to spend the night with his grandparents, it was a Friday and Tim had taken the day off. All was in alignment. And then we phoned the hospital that morning to find they had no open beds.  There was nothing medically wrong; I was a low-priority. So, we waited.

That was a long day. I’d been uncomfortably pregnant for weeks at this point and looking forward to of course meeting my son, but also to relieving my significant discomfort. At the risk of turning this blog into a maternity site with discussions of placentas and cervixes, suffice it to say, I was physically miserable. I was told to call the next morning but warned—and in such a nonchalant manner that I almost crammed my fist through the phone—we might be looking at Monday. Monday?!

July 2^nd came and I was more than ready. We phoned that Saturday morning.  Still no open beds.   The on-call doctor must have heard the desperation in my voice. “Just come in,” she said. “We’ll see what we can do. Maybe you can spend some time in triage. Maybe then you’ll have some movement or someone will go home.” We got checked in. Still no beds. I didn’t care about a bed at this point—a couch in the waiting room would have worked. The nurses were doing all they could. They wanted me to have my baby that day too. Perhaps the sight of my enormous pregnant belly, swollen ankles and flushed cheeks told them something. They sent us off to get lunch. “Get something spicy,” a nurse said. “And find a hilly street. Hike it. Briskly.”

Since we were on First Hill in Seattle, we easily found both a hilly street and spicy food. Sitting down to a gyro I hoped I wouldn’t revisit later, Tim and I had our last meal together as parents of one. When we got back to the hospital, they set me up in triage with all the requisite monitors.  And finally I got a bed sometime around 6 p.m. Once induction began, Lucas wasted no time. In fact, as we chatted with the nurse during an exam, she casually said “You’ll be having this baby in the next twenty minutes.” Tim and I chuckled thinking she was nuts. Sure enough, within a few minutes I remember thinking, this kid is coming. “Can someone get the doctor?” I asked realizing she wasn’t even in the room. “And take off my socks for crying out loud!” Ten minutes later, three pushes later, my lovely, beautiful, rosy-cheeked baby was born. Ready to take on the world having shown us all he was in charge. His strength of character, also known as stubbornness, has never been more evident than it is now as he grows into his fifth year. He’s a sweet, strong, smart, hilariously silly boy. And he knows, already and in no uncertain terms, who he is and what he wants. I am proud to watch him grow. I am proud to be his mother. Happy Birthday, my sweet Lucas. You will always be my baby.

We used to roller skate around the barn and put on plays and mock trials in that giant musty shell of a building all the while daring each other to venture to the lower levels where there were sure to be ghosts. In the evenings we’d play baseball in front of the house. Most of the kids were boys so I took on a toughness already brewing in my psyche. During the hot summer days, we’d walk along dusty roads to the local creeks to swim. We were a sight for the locals—a bunch of middle class Jewish hippie city liberals descending upon this poor country town every summer.

One year while we were swimming in the creek, a group of tough townies came along and started jumping off the bridge in to the water. It was about a 30 foot drop. They had an awesome recklessness about them. My father was there. Since my parents had already split by this time, I’m pretty sure my parents alternated who would stay at Bodines. They may have left us there with the communal pack and driven back and forth to Philly, I don’t recall. My dad was taking pictures with his Leica—he was a professional photographer and always had several rolls of TRI-X and a camera. When I saw that lanky stringy haired local boy jump off that bridge I knew I had to be next.  “No girls,” said the townie. “What?” “No girl has ever jumped off.” That was it.

“I want to do it, Dad.” I don’t remember how the conversation went, but he let me. I was scared but he stood below, camera in hand. I’m sure someone was up there with me, some of my buddies. And I jumped. And it was magnificent. It was freeing and terrifying and exhilarating and amazing. And I was the first girl to do it. None of the rest of our crew wanted to try. I wonder if my dad still has that great black-and-white shot of me soaring through the air.

When I went to jump a second time, something new happened for me. I was more frightened. Something about knowing what was going to happen made me fear the experience more. I did it anyway; it was different but still great, and I did it again another day. When my mom found out I’m sure she and my dad had it out, but I’d done it and thus fueled my as yet never quenched sense of adventure.

Several years ago, I decided I wanted to write a mystery novel. I took an adult education class at the University of Washington on mystery writing and set to work. Eventually after many days, weeks, months, a few drafts, a lot of mistakes, and some helpful guidance and editing from both my instructor and agent, I finished a publishable novel. I’d done it. And then I got it published. And people read it. They liked it. And they asked me when I was going to do it again. And I felt like I was standing on top of that damn 30 foot bridge getting ready to jump for the second time.

But, I wrote and I wrote and I got stuck but the story was still in my head. And then I had small kids and I was beyond overwhelmed and I knew the timing wasn’t right and it was easy to wait. And that was OK, then.  I let the story brew in my mind and sit—partially told—on my computer. But now, my story is bubbling to the surface and my youngest son is starting kindergarten in two months.

The other day, I decided I was ready to take the plunge, pun intended. I hired a professional editor to work with because I am stuck and I need guidance. (If you’ve ever read the acknowledgements of a novel, you know that many people help authors when they work: editors, assistants, researchers, “early readers,” agents, friends, family.) I was going it alone on top of that bridge but no more. I’m ready. I’m going to jump in a lake. Again.